The Perils of Sanity
by Rachael torie b
Summary: Sanity, my dear friends, is not objective; it's not a matter of black and white. Here at the Crowley Institute for the Mentally Unwell we strive to understand the darkest minds, to find what separates them from us, to discover what lines exist between normalcy and madness. SYOC, closed until further notice.
1. Chapter 1

The pale lights flickered and danced with an audible hum, a resonate buzzing that fit well with the chipped concrete walls, painted over with a faded seaweed green color. Light green is supposed to be calming, but it was doubtful that would be helping these people. Dr. Jensen's small plum pumps clacked against the similarly green floor, although a darker hue than the walls, as she sharply turned corners and rattled off instructions, schedules, and patient information to David. He tried to keep up, but it was easy to become distracted by the number of individuals wearing straitjackets and peeking through their tiny cell windows.

The doctor stopped at a heavy metal door equipped with a security guard and an electronic key scanner. She flipped her id card up and, without saying so much as a hello to the guard on duty, a portly man with an ill-matching gaunt face, was cleared with access by the beeping machine. David, who would soon be a security guard himself, gave the man a small nod as he followed Dr. Jensen into an even more dimly lit hallway.

"So, uh," David began, "Why are these patients separate from the others?"

Dr. Jensen cast him a sidelong glance, as if just noticing his presence for the first time. "An issue of personal safety." She answered.

"For who?" he laughed, "Us or them?"

She looked at him without expression, unamused.

David made a mental note not to make any jokes while at the workplace. Eyeing their surroundings, he quickly learned there wasn't much to see, but he did notice these cells' windows were covered with a little metal latch. He didn't know if this disturbed or relieved him. Finally, at the end of the corridor, they came to the end: an intimidating steel door, set with another clearance-only security scanner.

"What's back here?" David asked.

Dr. Jensen raised her card once again, and the large door slid open automatically after the beep. "You'll see," is all she said.

And see David did. There was a glass enclosure, not large, but bigger than the average rooms he had seen thus far. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but a young man—or rather a boy—sitting at a table, hands crossed, looking at them as if he were a host waiting for his visitors. It was unspectacular really; David didn't understand the reason for it.

"Who is this?" He questioned, examining the boy. He had dark brown hair, jaw clean shaven, skin pale, eyes blue—expectant and calm. Behind the glass, the boy yawned lazily.

"That is Griffin Foster. He's 19 years old, has an estimated IQ of genius level, and went to college at age 14. He grew up in Kennesaw, Georgia with a nice wealthy family, and can, apparently, play 10 instruments, or so he says."

David frowned, placing a hand on the glass. The doctor seemed to sense his apprehension. "Don't worry; he can't hear us."

"Sounds like a stellar kid," David commented, "What's he doing in a place like this?"

She walked to the glass, heels snapping. A small smile, almost secretive in nature, adorned her lips. "He's a serial killer, Mr. Parker. They located the first body when he was 16, and they've been finding them ever since."

David recoiled from the surface of the cell like it had shocked him. "Sick—why's this little bastard still alive?"

Doctor Jensen grinned, gaze still set on Griffin Foster. "Welcome to the Crowley Institute for the Mentally Unwell, Mr. Parker."

* * *

A/N: Yes, welcome. This is my newest project, _**The Perils of Sanity**_ **.**

It's a SYOC, which means Submit Your Original Character for those of you who may be new to this. To be honest, I'm not sure where I intend this story to go, but I know it will mainly be about character interaction and the characters themselves. I'm writing this as a bit of an experiment, as I've never written a character that's "crazy" before and would like to. Now, down to the good stuff necessary for submission.

 **This is a story about mentally unwell individuals—if that triggers, offends, or unnerves you please do not submit to or read the story.**

My OC is not in fact new security guard David Parker, but Griffin Foster himself. I used David to get a first chapter from the spectator's point of view.

Okay, so let's talk character creation. The OCs you send in to be patients at the institute, they're all going to be what others may call insane. I realize 100% that most people with mental disorders are not violent, disturbing, or dangerous; they are capable of leading perfectly normal lives. The individuals at the Crowley Institute for the Mentally Unwell are not capable of this; they are the severe, uncommon cases. Some of them may not be as bad as Griffin, and that's fine.

Submit by PM only, and here is the form. My school's last day is May 13th, so after that is when updates will begin. May 13th is also the last day I'll accept character submissions, so if you want to submit please do it by then.

 **Here is how you should title your PM: The Perils of Sanity: Your Character's Name**

Name: (First, middle, and last)

Nicknames, if any:

Gender:

Age: (16-25)

Birthday:

Appearance: (Be descriptive—I need to be able to visualize your character)

Celebrity Look-A-Like:

Distinctive Markings: (As in tattoos, birthmarks, scars, blemishes, piercings, etc.)

What is your character's favorite physical feature?

What is your character's least favorite physical feature?

Personality: (Be descriptive, and please make sense.)

List of positive personality traits:

List of negative personality traits:  
Fatal Flaw:

Quirks, vice, and strange behaviors/mannerisms:

Mental Illnesses and Disorders?

What makes people believe your character is "Crazy?"

Examples of Dialogue and things they would say:

How do they see themselves? How do they want to be seen by others?

Family and Friends:

How did your character end up at the Crowley Institute for the Mentally Unwell?

Is your character a danger to themselves and the rest of society? If so, to what extent? (Ex: Griffin is a serial killer, so he is obviously very dangerous. Things like morality, human life, and social norms mean very little to him; he is not afraid to hurt people.)

Sexual Orientation:

Would you like your character to be involved in romantic relationships?

If so, what kind of person is your attracted to? What kind of person is your character turned off by?

Is your character a virgin?

If you said yes to the possibility of romantic relationships, would you mind if I used your character as Griffin's love interest? (Fair warning, he is dangerous; he is disturbed—any relationship with him would be dark, and most probably, unhealthy.)

If your character wasn't forced to wear Institute uniforms, what would be their clothing style?

Every patient at the Institute is allowed three personal objects from home—what are your character's?

What does your character look for in a friend?

What are characteristics your character cannot stand in others?

Fears:

Dreams and Aspirations:

Obsessions, if any:

Hobbies/Interests/Talents:

Favorite-

-book:

-movie:

-band:

-song:

-food:

-color:

-animal:

-place:

Dislikes:

Theme Song(s):

What are some possible plotlines for your character? What are some things you'd like to see happen during the story?

What do you feel I should know about your character?  
Anything Else You Would Like to Add:

Note (Not part of form): While this fanfiction isn't necessarily based on any particular fandom, themes, concepts, and events may be borrowed from other works. When this occurs at any time in the story, to my knowledge, I will fully credit the original creators and owners. This is a fanfiction created by a fan; I do not profit from this. All coincidental similarities are just that: coincidences. Even still, in accidental case of similarity, all rights are to the the original and legal owners.


	2. An Exceptional Group

" _ **No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness." –Aristotle**_

* * *

"I believe in what we're doing here, Mr. Stanton. Just a few more months; just a little more funding."

The man in the trim gray suit smiled in what appeared to be a benevolent manner, but the eyes did not match. "I appreciate everything you've done, Dr. Jensen, but do you honestly believe we're going to find what we're looking for in a pack of crazy people?"

Grimacing internally at his tone, one of which calmed and cajoled the best of them when it, in fact, held thinly veiled threats, Doctor Eliza Jensen stretched her own mouth into a politician's smile. "Sir," she said sweetly, "I do believe that, and I am disappointed you feel that way, considering your own history."

Stanton's piercing dark eyes flashed and narrowed. "Careful, Doctor."

"I assure you, I am."

The darkness receded from the man's expression, and he leaned back with his smile in place. There was something distinctly lupine about his grin. "Alright, _Eliza,_ I'll see what you can do. But remember: time is the only thing I do not have an abundance of."

"Of course, Mr. Stanton."

* * *

It was on time. The flicker of the lights, Doctor Volkov was sure of it. Every forty-two seconds, they would quiver. It was such an annoyance Volkov found himself closing his eyes.

"Valentin? Are you in here?"

He took a moment to breath, lids shut, before calling out to Eliza. "Yes, I am."

She entered the dimly lit room, white coat standing out like it was florescent much like his own. Honestly, if Valentin Volkov was more of a violent man, he would probably kill the Institute's electrician.

Face creased with worry, Eliza immediately began pacing. "Stanton dropped by."

Great. Just what Volkov needed today. "Oh really? Business or pleasure?"

She made a face. "All business as usual. He wants us to speed up on our work, or else."  
"Yes," Volkov scoffed, "The old 'I'll pull the funding' threat. The man's unoriginal; aged intimidations lose their effectiveness."

"We can't continue research without money, Valentin—even you must admit that."  
In response, he simply shrugged. "Let's go over the files, shall we? See if we can find any promising candidates."

Eliza nodded, pulling up her tablet, screen blooming to electronic life with a few swipes. A picture of a boy took over the screen, skin pale and messy hair dark. His boyish, lopsided grin looked uncharacteristically innocent.

"Collin Tindolle, 19, Antisocial Personality Disorder." Jensen read aloud.

"Dangerous?" Volkov questioned, examining the boy's dead looking eyes, color like cool steel.

"Yes, very. I believe he can also be diagnosed as psychotic."

"He'll be a fun one, I think."

"Hmm," she mused, swiping to the side. A girl with long white blonde hair and a paper-like delicate face flashed onto the screen. She was very petite with a smile like the Mona Lisa. Dr. Volkov had to glance away before his mind could plummet into memories. Nostalgia, like any drug, was better in small doses.

"Evelyn Sawyer, 16. We don't really know what disorder she has—extreme PTSD maybe. Dissociative Amnesia, repression of memories; whatever it is, she's been thoroughly traumatized."

"How horrible." Volkov deadpanned.

The next image was of another girl, the opposite of Evelyn with dark, nearly black, hair and eyes. She looked, unlike the others, very solemn. Volkov got the feeling she would be timid in person.

"Her name is Avery Caulfield, 18. She suffers from Paranoia, Social Anxiety, and ADD."

Frowning, he tried to imagine the girl hurting someone, but couldn't quite manage it. "She doesn't seem dangerous in the least."

Eliza smiled. "Avery doesn't like doctors, and the last one who spoke to her nearly died."

He lifted a dark eyebrow, mildly surprised.

"Although," Eliza said, "In contrast to the previous two, she's never killed anyone."

Changing the picture, a girl with a broad and normal smile popped up. Her skin was dark, but not as dark as her hair, which was in a curly afro. Her eyes twinkled brightly, almost daringly. "This is Kenya Anderson, 19. While high-functioning, she's been diagnosed with Paranoia, Depersonalization Disorder, and Antisocial Personality Disorder. There is a possibility of other mental illnesses as well, but Miss Kenya is not an easy one to diagnose."

Seeing her challenging expression, Volkov believed he would heed that advice. Images switched, and a girl's stare bore out at them. There was something about her dark gaze that was sharp and piercing, and she was unsmiling, face half shrouded by wavy black hair.

"Clarissa Lightwood, 18. She's currently diagnosed with Depression, Panic Disorder, Agoraphobia, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Like Avery, she's never killed anyone, but her panic attacks cause her to become quite violent."

"That seems to be a theme," he remarked.

Swiping across the screen, Eliza brought up a picture of an elegant looking boy, sandy hair parted carefully and mouth pursed in what appeared to be vexation. "Anthony Belmonte, 18. While no official diagnosis has been made, we suspect some type of Dissociative disorder. He murdered his grandfather and now claims innocence."

"That sounds more like a criminal issue than a mental one."

Eliza shrugged. "His rich parents wanted him put here. If we can help him, we should try. The money doesn't exactly hurt either."

Another picture flared into view. A girl with smooth, caramelized skin and dark hair cut close to her head stood smiling into the camera. It was a small smile, seemingly conflicted.

"She's Phoebe Davenport, 17, though her other personalities go by Fiona and Ava. She suffers from Disassociation Identity Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and, when she's Fiona, Sex Addiction."

Volkov didn't quite know what to make of that. "Sounds like quite the character."

"Indeed," Eliza agreed, switching the photo to the next patient, a young man whose untamed black hair was flipped into his vision. He was darkly tanned, and glared stoically at whoever took the picture with lightless hazel eyes.

"Here we have Morgan Reed, 19. Sleepwalking and Sleep Terror Disorder, Paranoia, and Anti-Social Personality Disorder. He seems to hold a genuine dislike of most people upon meeting them."

"You and Morgan have that in common then."

Choosing to ignore his snide comment, she moved on to the next photo, which showed a girl with long dark brown hair and bright blue eyes smoldered with a gray tint. They were rather lovely, in his opinion, and her grin revealed straight white teeth.

"Lilly Eden, 19. Her known disorders are Anorexia and Intermittent Explosive Disorder, and we have to assume she's a threat. Lilly attacked her own brother with a knife; luckily, he survived."

Valentin didn't say anything, but he decided Lilly would be worth looking into once extensive evaluations began.

Flipping to the last image, Valentin recognized the enigmatic yet completely self-assured grin of one Griffin Foster.

"You know Griffin," Eliza said, "but for consistency's sake, we'll run through the diagnosis. Antisocial Personality Disorder, though he lacks the impulsiveness generally present with this illness, and Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He exhibits a multitude of other symptoms that could go under a number of mental disorders, but diagnosis is a difficult process due to the fact he so often changes his behavior."

Volkov snorted. "Oh trust me, I know all about that."

Eliza rolled her eyes. "Don't be so bitter; he stabbed you one time."

"I remember it quite well, thank you. Are the others safe to interact with him?"

"No, but they're more than capable of holding their own." She laid down the tablet. "We have an exceptional group this time."

"Yes. Pray they don't murder us in our sleep."

"I'm more worried about them killing each other."

Volkov rolled his shoulders, ignoring the incessant flickering of the lights. "Saves us the trouble of weeding out the weak."

Her pale eyes glittered. "It could have been us, you know."

Barely biting back his irritation, he snapped, "It wasn't."

"Easy," she warned, "Evaluations begin tomorrow. I need you on your best behavior."

"Scout's honor." he said, smiling without any warmth, "Besides, I've always liked that part."

* * *

A/N: Hello everybody! So there's the introductory chapter; I apologize for the rapid fire way I introduced the characters, but any lengthier than that and it would have taken multiple chapters.

I have two important questions for you guys: in the upcoming chapters, how many POVs should I write from, and what characters would you like to hear from next? It's perfectly okay to say your own, but you also have to pick another that doesn't belong to you.


	3. Come In, Crazy's Here

" _ **Insanity is relative. It depends on who has locked who in what cage." –Ray Bradbury**_

* * *

The floor was too cold, concrete and rough. That was not why Avery refused to put so much as a toe on it. Underneath the bed—if the wee cot could even be called that—she was sure there was something lurking. Every time she moved, it moved; every time she closed her eyes, she knew it was there. Like a child, Avery hid, wrapped in her blanket, a fluffy red and white striped swath worn by time and love. It was a security blanket—if only it could protect her from herself.

Her skin felt clammy; it crawled. Her throat felt like it was closing, tighter and tighter. The only sounds in the room were her ragged breathing and the faint growls of the intruder under the bed. She wished she'd brought Fred to sleep with her, but the plushy dinosaur sat like a sentinel on the nightstand by the door. Good God, why were the lights flickering like that?

From outside, footsteps approached. She pressed her face into the blanket, praying no one came in. No such luck.

"Avery, this is Dr. Jensen; may I come in?" Keys jingled as the doorknob turned.

A small whimpering nose came from Avery's throat. Why couldn't they just leave her alone?

The door opened, shadows splitting as the imitation light from outside slid inside. The doctor, this Jensen woman, entered with a tablet in her hands, a crimson smile on her lips. Her heels sounded like claws scraping off the floor.

"Hey Avery, how are you?"

The girl in question turned her head away, eyes shut tight. She heard a stool being dragged over.

"You'll feel better if you talk about it."

No. No she wouldn't.

"This is cute. Does he have a name?"

Avery's eyes flashed open. Like a captive, Fred's green little body hung from the doctor's grasp.

"H—he's mine. Don't hold him like that."

Chastised, the doctor changed her position, cradling Fred like a baby.

"I'm sorry. I don't have much experience with stuffed dinosaurs, I'm afraid. Would you like him?"

Swallowing, she nodded slowly. With a weary gaze, Avery watched the doctor's every move as she tucked Fred into the blanket beside her.

"There." The doctor said, smiling. "Do you feel better now?"

Avery didn't say anything; she didn't like strangers, and the thing underneath her would learn what she sounded like if she spoke too much.

"You know," Dr. Jensen began, "Fred would probably like to know what you're thinking right now."  
Avery's eyes narrowed. "I thought you didn't know what his name was."

"It was in your file, from your parents."

"I have a file?"

Jensen's grin was supposed to be disarming, Avery assumed, but it looked wolf-like in the shadows. "Every patient at the Institute has a file, Avery. We need to know what's going on so we can help you."

"I don't think Fred likes you."

Jensen laughed. "Toys can't dislike people."

"This one can."

The doctor's expression turned serious. "Why did you attack that other doctor, Avery?"

"…Guess that was in the file too, huh."

"Everything is in the files."

That was extremely concerning.

"I want to sleep now."

Standing, Jensen gave a tight-lipped smile, clutching the tablet like a lifeline. "I'll be back later with your medication. Get some rest, okay?"

Avery buried her face into her pillow. She didn't want sleep. She didn't want medication. She just didn't want to be afraid anymore. The doctor was leaving, first foot out the door.

"Wait!" Avery called, and the older woman halted, a look of curiosity on her face.

"I didn't mean to. I swear. I was… he was.. I was scared."

Dr. Jensen lips pulled into a half smile, an understanding smile. "Everyone is scared sometimes. You don't have to be scared here, Avery. Nothing can get you. No one will hurt you."

 _That's not true, Avery. It doesn't matter if there isn't anything under the bed. There is always something in your head._

Avery nodded, snuggling deeper into her blanket. Dr. Jensen closed the door softly, and it somehow contrasted with the harsh click of the lock falling into place.

The lights danced. Her heart pounded. Sweat trickled down her back. She closed her eyes.

"Nothing can get me nothing can get me nothing can get me nothing can get me nothing nothing…"

The thing under her bed laughed.

* * *

The scratching of the pencil on paper was calming, and Clary continued to doodle in her journal despite the ache building up in her hand. Between the intervals of sketching, she stared at the page, disgusted by the lack of color—the Institute wouldn't give her colored pencils, though she asked.

"Dumb doctors, hording all the writing utensils for themselves," Clary muttered, flipping the pencil around and scrubbing at the page with the eraser. At some point, the motion became too vigorous and the paper tore. Clary stared at it, the round rip in her perfect ocean, a hole to suck the waves into. She felt the sudden urge to cry.

Out of the corner of her eye, Clary saw the doorknob turn. Growling, she shoved her journal under her pillow and turned her back to the door. Judging by the ugly tope-green clock on the wall, it was around 4:35 pm, meaning it was Volkov and her medication.

The door opened and shut and Clary refused to look.

She heard him whistling to himself, a creepy little tune she had nightmares about. "Good afternoon, Clarissa. Having a good day?"

"Quite, actually," she ground out, "There's nothing that beats isolation in a hideous cell. What about you, Vally? Have any hate sex with Elizabeth in the breakroom today?"

Volkov snorted. "I appreciate your poor attempt at humor, and her name is Eliza." Clary heard him set the medical tray down on her wee nightstand. "Me and my co-worker's relationship is strictly professional."

"Riiiiight," Clary drawled, seemingly unconvinced. Truthfully, she couldn't care less, but she had picked up vibes between Vally and Elizabitch. Once again, not that she cared.

The doctor approached, standing to her left. "Take these," he ordered, holding two different colored pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Clary thought about stubbornly refusing, but she knew what happened when she was off the meds. She held out her hand and he dropped the pills onto her palm. She put them into her mouth and downed them with a chug of water, quickly handing the glass back to him. With a wave of her hand, Clary dismissed the doctor. "That'll be all now," she said, turning back to the wall.

"Not quite," Volkov mused, "I have a few questions to ask you."

Clary bit her lip, fingers curling into her fists. "Go on then. I don't have all day."

Dragging a chair over, Volkov sat, pen and paper in hand. "Why have you been refusing therapy sessions?"

"Because I don't want them—next."

"Why?'

"Why won't you admit you're fucking Elizabeth?"

He sighed. "I am not fornicating with _Eliza_. What is your fixation with my personal affairs?"

"So, you admit there is an affair going on? An affair means you must have a girlfriend or, worse yet, a wifey-poo."

"Am I wearing a ring?"

"No, but that means naught these days. How easy is it to take off a ring?"

"I am not married."

"So a girlfriend then? How serious is it, Vally? I'd hate to think my favorite doctor likes somebody better than me."

"Clarissa Lightwood, behave yourself."

Clary batted your lashes exaggeratedly. "But I thought you liked me when I'm bad."

Volkov jumped to his feet, setting the chair back to its proper place near the far wall. "That's enough for today I believe." He rushed to the door, unlocking it once again. "Oh, and by the way, I signed you up for group therapy sessions—they begin tomorrow at 3:00 pm sharp." With that he ducked out of the door and disappeared into the hallway.

"What?!" Clary screeched after him, though he was gone. "Oh—no no no. How are we gonna get out of this one, Clary?" she asked herself out loud, twisting a lock of her thick dark hair about her finger, twirling and twirling it. It would tangle, but she didn't care.

Yanking her journal back out, Clary wildly flipped to a blank page, putting the pencil she still gripped tightly to the page.

 _Dear Diary,_ she began,

 _I think I'm going to have to kill Volkov…_

* * *

 _Tap. Tap. Tap._

…

 _Tap._

 _Tap._

 _Tap._

Collin knocked his fist against the wall behind his bed. Again and again, a rhythmic and incessant beat only he could march to. His eyes were planted on the roof, but they might as well have been gazing at the stars for how away they seemed. Waiting, he was waiting.

Nearly almost time—no. It was past time.

Outside the door, the tell-tale click of high heels echoed. Collin grinned, looping up from the cot, sheets falling to the floor. The sounds grew closer, and he hurriedly smoothed out the wrinkles in his Institute uniform. Uniforms were no reason to dress sloppily, no reason at all.

Keys jingled tantalizingly, like little metallic wind-chimes. Collin fidgeted, fingers twitching—he could hardly contain his anticipation. Finally, oh, finally, the door opened.

Collin raised a finger, wagging it in disapproval. "You're late," he chastised, toothy grin betraying his attempted authority.

Dr. Jensen stopped in the doorway, signature tablet in hand. When he first arrived, Collin had created a whole scenario in his head about cyborg doctors who had electronic screens for hands; he wasn't too far off.

The woman quickly pulled her lips into a smile. "Collin," her was patronizing, "You know you're not my only patient. I was doing my rounds."

A muscle in his cheek jumped, grin still in place, head cocking to the side. "Why are you trying to hurt my feelings, doc?"

Jensen fully entered the room, allowing the door to click shut behind her. He learnt quickly they did that on their own.

The doctor looked as she always did: dark hair pulled tightly into a bun, white coat pressed, lips stained ruby, heels colored in purple. Collin longed to mess up the immaculate look. She was not a cyborg doctor, after all, so she should look like a normal girl.

"I'm not trying to hurt you. No one at Crowley is, Collin. You know that."

And the patronization continues. Collin figured he should take a gander at a mirror, just to check if he suddenly looked like a little kid.

"Doc? Doc, dear, can you do something for me?"

"Well," Eliza said thoughtfully, "Ask me first, and then we'll see."

"It's real simple," Collin elaborated, snapping his fingers to demonstrate the simplicity of his request. "Just let your hair down." As he said it, he circled her, awaiting a reaction.

"Why?" she asked, gaze following him as he stalked. Collin stopped behind the doctor, placing his head on her shoulder. He looked like a boy then, begging his mother for a hug or a toy.

"Why?" he mimicked, loudly inhaling the aroma of Eliza's shampoo—vanilla and strawberries. "Because I've been a good boy, haven't I, doc? And I never ask for anything, do I, doc?"

The two stood in silence and stillness, until Eliza brought a hand up to the nape of her neck, releasing the clip that held her hair in place. The silky brunette locks fell down her back, and Collin wrapped them around his hands. Happily, he sighed, tugging experimentally.

"See," he cooed, "Was that so hard?"

The harsh lights overhead washed the small room in an eerie glow, their electric buzzing reminiscent of cicada bugs.

"What are you going to do?" Oh, Eliza, you always try so hard to stay in control.

Collin brought his face to the back of her head, delighting in the cool silkiness against his skin. "I'm gonna have some fun."

"Wha—"

She didn't get to finish, cut off by Collin, who jerked her own hair about her own throat. He pulled it tight, the long, thick strands able to wrap around the doctor's entire neck. Pushing back against him, the woman tried to gasp in air, but Collin wasn't having it, yanking her head back with an audible pop.

"You hurt my feelings, doc. Now I have to hurt you." Collin pressed his lips to her ear, "And I really liked you too."

In response, Eliza only could yack and cough and sputter, and he laughed as she clawed at his hands. She began to sag against him.

Chuckling, he yanked her back up. "I ain't gonna lie, you look a little blue, doc."

Behind them, someone burst through the door, the metal thing clanging off the wall. Collin whirled around, doctor still in hand. The interloper was a security guard—apparently, a replacement for the last one who died—with blond hair and huge, terrified eyes. The boy clutched a baton in his hands, thrusting it up before him like a magic wand. He was kind of cute, actually, in a vanilla sort of way.

Collin cackled, keeping Jensen pressed to him. It wasn't hard since she wasn't moving anymore. "Ya gonna hit me with that fancy stick, cutie pie?"

The guard ventured closer. "I will if I have to," he declared, eyes raking up both Collin and Eliza. "Now," he gulped, "Now let her go."

Collin scrunched up his face in contemplation. Finally, he pressed his cheek against the doctor's. "Don't forget what it felt like." With that, he ran a long lick down her cheek, tasting the salty tears that had crept out in her panic. Then, with a careless shove, Collin pushed Eliza away, sending her into a heap at the security guard's feet.

The boy bent down with caution, stare never leaving Collin. He placed a hand on her arm, "Are you okay?"  
Eliza choked when she attempted to speak, hands coming up to rub uselessly against her abused throat. She settled for nodding, eyes bloodshot and watery. Blondie pulled her up as Collin watched on, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

With great haste, the two backed out of the cell, door slamming shut with a kick of the guard's boot. Collin rushed to the little window, pressing his face against it.

"Next time, we'll put that stick to better use."

His laugh, loud and angry, bounced off the halls, following them.

* * *

A/N: You may have been thinking anything along the lines of: _I thought that bitch was dead._

Well, you can call me Lazarus for I have risen. And yeah, I have a bunch of excuses, but you're not interested in those. So onward, upward, forward, and what have you. For what it's worth, I am sorry though.

If you're still interested in this story, let me know in a review.

.


End file.
